


Sansa and the Stranger

by Enimite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adapted from a novel, Alternate Universe, F/M, Sandor is the Stranger, Sansa is a normal village girl, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:19:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enimite/pseuds/Enimite
Summary: Sansa is dying, lost in the woods when she is met with the Stranger. He is severe, and harsh, but she is given one more day of her life in exchange for a song and a promise.  In the time she has left Sansa must save her village from plague and find her true love in the twenty-four hours Sandor Clegane has given her, lest she be forfeit to him forever. Extreme AU with Stranger!Sandor and Peasant!Sansa.Based heavily on "Keturah and Lord Death," by Martine Leavitt. And I mean heavily.





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> I got into SanSan rather recently, and remembered this book I had adored and realized how fitting Sandor and Sansa would fit into its storyline. The plot and much of the dialogue is taken straight out of the book, with some changes to make it more in-character. This is really a self-indulgence for myself, but I hope you guys enjoy it too.

Sansa Stark was six and ten the day she was lost in the forest, and was six and ten the day she met her death.

She had been walking in the garden, which bordered the vast Kingswood, when she caught sight of the famed direwolf, the direwolf that had eluded Lord Robert Baratheon and his finest hunters many times. It was magnificent in appearance, with thick, snow-white fur, and larger than any wolf or dog Sansa had ever seen. Its muzzle dripped red with the fresh blood of a newly fallen kill, and Sansa would have run at the sight of it if she had not been so entranced by its feral grace. The direwolf raised its head, and Sansa stared into the golden depth of its eyes and saw the intelligence and regal pride of the creature. At last, the wolf slowly turned and walked back into the forest.

She meant only to peek into the trees to see more of the beast. Sansa thought of the stories her father used to tell her when he was still alive, of how the first Starks had ridden with direwolves and how they could even wear their skins; she thought only to follow it a little way into the forest—along the pig path. Sansa thought she saw the wolf between the trees, and then she did not, and then she did, and after a good long while she turned about and realized she was lost in the wood.

She walked along a deer-trodden path for a while, hoping that it would take her to the edge of the forest as deer were often sighted at. The path twisted around a ridge above a ravine, and below her Sansa could hear the rustling of running water, a creek. The way down was too steep, though, and she could not see it. At the side of the ravine trees grew tall and upwards, further obscuring her view. The sun shone down harshly and her dress clung uncomfortably to her sweat-clad skin. Her throat was dry.

 _What I would give, for a sip of water_ , she thought tiredly.

Sansa tried to follow the low rumbling of the brook, but as she left her path she soon could no longer hear the water at all. She turned, trying to find her way back, but she could not find the path again. The briar and vines tripped her as she treaded the forest floor, and scraped cruelly against her skin, but still she walked.

Trees, which once seemed benign and beautiful to her blocked the light, and seemed to impede her path maliciously. Their branches tore at her red tresses, and no fruit was gifted from them, only bark and bitter leaves. As each night fell, Sansa slept restlessly, she dreamt that the Kingswood went on forever.

Three days passed, three days of wandering and hopelessness and crippling hunger. At the end of the third day Sansa found the great red trunk of an old weirwood, its sap long dried. She kneeled before it, praying to the gods, old and new, reconciling her regrets and past sins. Sansa prayed for her mother, who was surely looking for her even now, and weeping for her by the window of their cottage. She prayed for Arya, and Bran, and little Rickon. She even prayed for Jon, who was stationed at the wall, for the Warrior to give him strength in his battles and for the Mother to watch over him.

 _Dear father and Robb,_ she thought of the lost Stark men of her family. _I will join you two soon._

Afterwards she laid against the scratchy trunk of the tree and thought about her dreams that would never be realized: to have her own little cottage to clean, her own baby to hold and sing to, and most of all, her one true love to be her husband. She laid against the old weirwood for a long while, her heart weeping with longing for her warm home, the comforting embrace of her mother, and for her lost future.

As the sun set for the fourth night, death came to her in the form of a man.

He was astride on top of a great black courser. His figure was barely illuminated by the dusk light, but his outline stood apart from the shadowy trees and Sansa could see that he was massive. The man wore a rough looking olive-green cloak over plain, soot-dark armor with a great sword sheathed at his side. Sansa could not make out the features of his face, but long black hair lifted in the wind and she could feel his stare on her weakened figure. He felt imposing, breathtakingly severe, and entirely beyond-this-world with his dark burly form and his cloak seemed to move and twist with the shadows. He looked like the Warrior, but Sansa was not fooled.

 _The Stranger has come to take me away,_ her delirious mind thought.

Sansa remembered the courtesies her proud mother had instilled into her since she could first walk. So when the man dismounted, and as he came towards her, she said, “Forgive me ser, if I do not rise.”

His steps slowed. “Do you know who I am, girl?”

“I do, ser,” she nodded, “you are the Stranger.”

The sun fell behind the mountains still, and in the dark the man seemed to become part of the shadows. He stood in front of her, now, and he was even taller than Sansa first thought.

“I’m no ser,” he said. His voice was a rasp, deep and grating, and it reminded Sansa of a sword scraping itself across stone. A thrill of fear went through her. “And you’re Ned Stark’s girl. I knew him.”

“Yes, my lord.” The Stranger knew her father indeed, Sansa knew it well. Her father had died in the war, fighting for his king, leaving behind his wife and his children. The faces of her poor mother, and of her unruly siblings, came to Sansa’s mind then, and she thought of the life she would never know. She felt the trickle of wet tears down her cheeks. How could she leave them like this? “For…forgive me, my lord, but I am not ready.”

The Stranger gave a harsh bark of a laugh, the sound akin to snarling dogs in a pit. “No one is ready, girl.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said again, without hope, “but there was something I wanted to do.”

“Fuck your lords,” he snarled, suddenly. “Still chirping your courtesies, are you? Like a little bird from the summer isles.” The god sounded angry, and Sansa realized he was mocking her. “A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say, so she stayed quiet instead.

 He hunkered down on one knee in front of her, as if to observe her closer. Where his boot had been, the grass was utterly crushed and flattened, touched by death. She wondered if that would become her fate too, if he were to touch her. “You were a fool to fly so far into the wood, little bird.”

Sansa could not find the courage nor strength to look at his face, so she studied instead the Stranger’s powerful thigh and his large, gauntleted hands.

“I-I followed the direwolf, the one Lord Robert Baratheon tried to hunt; the one that hunted instead the lord’s cattle last winter.” Her voice was small and weak, but Sansa found comfort from its sound. “Podrick once said that the wolf fought off a lion-“

“Quiet, girl.”

Sansa shut her mouth. She looked up, then, lethargic muscles finding the determination to look upon her maker, and met the ravaged flesh that was the Stranger’s face. One side of his face was fine enough, with sharp cheekbones and a dark, heavy brow, but the other half— _gods_ , Sansa trembled at the sight of it—the other half was a burned ruin. Charred flesh laid on the right side, pocked with craters and hard cracks that seemed to still ooze wet. Long black hair was combed over it, as if to hide the scars, but it did little to help, and where his right ear should have been there was a hole instead. But the worst was his eyes, silver-grey in color and so full of hate and rage that Sansa could no longer bring herself to look.

The side of his half-burned mouth twitched. “Not like any pretty lord or knight, is it little bird?”

Fear crept up Sansa’s spine again, fear of having offended the god. “No,” she whispered, voice impossibly quiet. “But you are not a lord, nor a knight.”

The Stranger laughed with no mirth. “Aye, I’m none of those. A dog is what I am. God too, perhaps, but still a slave to the whim of the fates as anyone is.”

He looked at her shivering figure. “You are shaking, girl. Do I frighten you so much?”

Sansa was not sure if he had meant his face or his identity as her death, but as the Stranger stared at her she realized that no excuses about wolves or lions would save her from her fate. Her strength was leaving her slowly as she laid against the ancient weirwood, the loamy earth underneath seemed to swallow her body whole.

“No,” she said as her answer, surprising herself with how much truth was in her words. “My lord, I’ve not slept in three nights, for cold and hunger and insects. Will I sleep now?”

He stood. “Do you try to be brave? Do not lie. A dog can smell a lie, you know.”

Sansa had not intended to be brave, she was only tired, but replied nonetheless. “I am a wolf, as only a Stark could be, and you are not so much a stranger to me. My father was beheaded for only loving his king when I was still a little girl and unflowered. My brother, Robb, pitted with arrows as he served his homelands. And my poor pet, Lady, slain for defending me as a noble boy tried to dishonor me.” The tears came again, fresh and unbidden. “I think you’ve been with me for perhaps much of my life.”

“True enough,” when he looked at her this time the anger in his eyes almost seemed softer. “You’ve grown to be beautiful too, naïve perhaps, but pretty. You look almost a woman…face, teats, and you’re taller too. How old are you, little bird?”

“Six and ten, my lord,” Sansa said. A beetle crawled onto her hand, but she had not the strength nor heart to brush it away.

“Six and ten. I’ve taken those much younger than you.”

He reached forward, and Sansa held her breath but it was only to brush the beetle away from her hand. His gloved hand only brushed her skin barely, but goosebumps rose on her skin from the feel of soft leather. She met his gaze; his eyes were still unbearable to look at and his face still horrifically ugly, but she looked on still.

“If I were to take a wife,” he said abruptly, seemingly impressed, “she would look upon my face.”

Sansa was frozen in a moment of terror. _What would it be, to be the bride of the Stranger?_

“My lord,” Sansa said, “I cannot marry you. I—I am too young.” A feeble excuse, Sansa knew, many girls married younger than she.

For a moment, he looked surprised. Then his face was back to being stone—closed off to the world around him—and he seemed to be even more angry than before. “I was not proposing,” he growled.

If Sansa had not been so weak, she would have blushed for shame.

Then he said, “Too young to marry, is that the way of it little bird? Aye, and too young to die.” He placed a hand on the sword by his hip, and his cloak billowed in a breeze Sansa could not feel. “I’ll give you a choice then, girl: pick someone to die in your place so that you can live.”

Sansa’s mouth went dry. “You mean that someone else…?”

“Yes,” he answered her and his voice was uncaring and gravely. “Just name a poor bastard and you can live on, not to see me for some time more.” He smiled cruelly, then, and it moved his scars along with it. “Go on. Choose, little bird.”

Sansa thought of her poor, shabby village, nestled in the farthest corner of the Crownlands, and her heart longed for it. How dear it seemed to her now, and how dear all in it.

“No,” she said. “I cannot.”

“Your mother is tired and weak,” he said, dismissive of her words. “I will be coming for her soon anyway. It would even be for her, little bird, even now she prays to the gods that her life be taken instead of her pretty daughter’s.”

“I refuse,” Sansa said, trembling. “I love my mother, and so do my brothers and sister. We could not live without her.”

His grey eyes narrowed at her. “No one refuses me.”

She would not be cowed. “But I do, my lord.”

For a moment Sansa thought those words may have been the last she ever spoke, but he only regarded her thoughtfully and she sucked in the air in relief.

The Stranger said instead, “The Imp, then. He’d even welcome it, I’d say. Each night the bloody half-man drowns his sorrows with wine. He’ll drink himself to his grave soon enough, believe that.”

“Tyrion enjoys his cups, yes, but he is a good man, my lord. He has a sharp mind and he makes the villagers laugh and happy with his quips. And he has a brother and sister. I…I suppose his sister would not be sad, but I know his brother would miss him.”

“The Blacksmith.” His gaze moved away from her and lifted—toward the village, Sansa suspected. “Aye, he is young, but a bastard he is still. No one would miss him, little bird, no father nor mother nor siblings.”

Again, Sansa shook her head. “No. As you have said he is young, and has much to live for. He is also my younger sister’s dear friend. Please, I could not take him away from her.”

“The village gossip, then. The bitch causes nothing but trouble.”

“She makes everyone feel better, for she can always tell you of one who is worse off than yourself. Please, not her.”

“There are many old in the village.”

“My lord, each is loved by someone young, someone whose heart would break. Besides, the old are full of sin and may need one more day to repent.”

“There are many very young who have no sins at all,” he insisted still. “I could make it quick and painless. Pick anyone—it makes no difference.”

Sansa gasped. “I would die three deaths before…” She swallowed the dust in her throat. “No,” she said, voice resolute. “If someone must die, it will have to be me.”

“Stupid little bird,” he snarled at her. “Your kindness for them means nothing. They will all die anyway. And much sooner than you think.”

She looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Plague comes,” the Stranger said.

 _Plague!_ Sansa’s thoughts suddenly focused singularly onto that one dreadful word.

“And the poor bastards who live,” he continued, “will wish they had died with the rest of the damned lot.”

Sansa did not register his words, her brain clanged with the one word like a bell. Plague _. Plague!_

“I—I will tell them to flee,” Sansa gasped. She had heard of plague. Tales from around the hearth, tales so horrible she could scarcely believe them.

“No one can outrun the plague, little bird,” the Stranger told her, tone cold and without pity.

Still, Sansa could not help but try. “When does it come? And from where?” She pressed him.

The Stranger did not answer. His lumbering form only stood there, unmoving.

“Please,” Sansa begged, “Tell me—tell me how to stop it!” She thought frantically of her little brothers, of their young skin covered in black boils, and bright blue eyes hazed in feverish pain.

“Even if I let you go, how would you stop it girl?” He snapped at her. “Your manored lord could, perhaps—but it may be too late, even if he were to try. Buggering drunken fool, Robert Baratheon has allowed his lands to become a ruinous shithole.”

Sansa did not know how that had anything to do with the plague, but she dared not ask him. A sob would escape her mouth if she spoke.

“But you could be spared, little bird,” he rasped.

It was as if Sansa had been woken from a three-day sleep. Her mind was a whirlwind, and at its center was a single word, black and quiet: plague. It was then Sansa realized she had to live a little while more, if only to warn her village.

The Stranger began to remove his steel gauntlets, all the while never taking his grey eyes off her. “You don’t mind if you die.”

Rapidly, Sansa shook her head. “Oh, yes, my lord, I do!”

He gave a short bark of a laugh at that. “Of course you do. What is it that you are living for then, little bird? Tell me.”

Sansa acutely felt the feeling leave her arms and legs, and felt it as her life slipped away inch by inch. The sadness of it all nearly broke her heart.

“I dreamt of my own little cottage to clean,” she told him, wistfully. “A little boy, or girl to hold, and most of all, one true love to be my husband.”

He snorted at that. “A pretty dream, for a pretty little bird,” he rumbled, “but you will have none of these girl, since you won’t choose someone to die in your place. Soft-hearted fool that you are.” He placed his hand on her head. It was large, and calloused, and felt as it were made of lead instead of flesh. Sansa felt lighter when he released his touch.

“Have you killed me?” She breathed.

“No,” he said. “You’re alive, little bird. For now.”

“Why did you touch me?”

He stiffened at that, and glared down at her. Sansa shrunk from his gaze. “Don’t question me, girl,” he said.

Sansa didn’t, for the Stranger had spoken truly—she was very much alive. Sansa heard the birds of the forest, and their singing was clearer to her than they had ever been. The wind felt cool on her clammy skin, like the caress of silk. How had she never before noticed the pepper-musk scent of fallen leaves and bracken? No, Sansa was not ready to die.

Nor could she bear to think of the plague coming to her village. _If only I could speak but for a little time with Lord Baratheon_ , she thought, _I must warn him._

“My lord, please let me say goodbye to my mother.”

“That seems to be everyone’s bloody wish when I come for them,” he remarked derisively. “And I do not give it. Come, little bird.”

He held out his hand, and Sansa could see its roughened texture and the little silver slivers of ancient scars. Her mind whirled, desperate for a way to live, but knowing that she could never outrun him. She could see herself reflected in the dulled metal of his armor, her beautiful face was pale and bug-bitten.

But the Stranger had not been completely honest with her, had he not? Sansa thought of Bran, who had fell from the high tower and should have died, but lived. A cripple he became instead, yes, but he still breathed and laughed and ate. And she remembered her cousin, Sweetrobin, who suffered from shaking sickness, and once slept for two weeks but awoke one day to live once more. No, the Stranger did not always take what he came for. Sansa had to try.

“There must be something I can give you in exchange.”

“You? You are just a peasant girl. A stupid little bird, with nothing but the clothes on your back.”

He laughed at her then, cruel and mocking, but she still had to _try_.

“I…I will sing you a song,” Sansa declared, too loudly, with the remaining strength that she did not know she possessed. A song was but a whimsical thing for a god such as he, but it was all she had, and if nothing else Sansa held pride in her singing.

“A song? You truly are a bird. But you have the right of it—I think I’d like a song from you, girl, but not the kind you would give so willing,” his grey eyes seemed to look through her, and Sansa shivered at the intensity of it. “What song will you sing for me, then?”

“Florian and Jonquil—a song of love between a great knight and his lady.” It was her favorite; she sung this song the most, above all others. She hoped that it would move his heart, as it did hers.

He did not seem impressed. “Love? Spare me. I have seen many loves, and none were so great I could not divide them.” Sansa felt her heart drop, but then he said, “But I will have your song. Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.”

She did. Her throat was dry and tight with fear, but Sansa sang the best she could. She sang it to him, sang it as her life depended on it. Her voice rang high and clear throughout the crisp night air, ringing throughout as she gave lyrics of Florian, who was both a fool and a knight, of Jonquil who sat in the pool in all her peerless beauty, and of their love—a love so strong and pure and ageless. The Stranger stood still, his scarred face expressionless and unreadable as he listened. Her voice grew softer as the lyrics approached their end.

“A fool and his cunt,” he rasped as the last notes of her song faded away.

“They are in love,” Sansa said, feeling defensive.

“Love,” he spat the word as if it were bile in his mouth, anger coloring his tone. “Nothing but a silly ideal for little girls. As it is yours too, no doubt.”

“Every girl dreams of _love_ ,” he continued spitefully, “then they marry and quarrel, and the girl will realize love is nothing more than shit in her hands.”

Sansa argued, stubbornly. “The girl will know that quarrels would come because their lives were intertwined—how passionately one defends a heart that is vulnerable.”

He was not moved. “The girl and her love will get old and ugly.” His tone was defiant and angry, but for some reason Sansa thought he sounded sad, too.

“They will,” she agreed, “and yet they will see past the scars of time to see instead the soul that they love.”

The Stranger was quiet at that for a while, face expressionless and like chiseled stone.

“There is no love like that,” he said finally, and flatly, but his voice was not harsh.

“There is,” Sansa said, softly. “My mother had it with my father, although you had taken him away too soon. I have always dreamed of finding it for myself, but now I will never have the chance.”

He said nothing at that, and Sansa looked up to him. “I have given you a song,” she said, sounding braver than she felt. “I beg of you, my lord, honor your part of the bargain.”

He shifted; it was the slightest of movements but to Sansa it seemed that he loomed over her now, hulking and oppressive in his shadowed greatness. “You think too highly of love,” he growled. “Bugger that. Love is no more than a story spun out of dust and dreams. As real as your songs of handsome knights and their pretty whores.”

“I spit at your love. But a song you did give me, little bird, and well sung,” he conceded. “I will give you one day. Return to me tomorrow, and you will come with me then.”

He smiled to himself, contorting his burned half in such a way that it twisted the blackened flesh into a truly gruesome image. The flesh seemed slick with wet and ooze, and for an alarming moment Sansa thought it might have been blood. She tore her eyes away from the horror of it.

“I will even make a deal with you, little bird. In the day I give you, find this love of yours that you so believe exists, and you will live and not come with me at all. I will take you to your mother’s on my horse. But only until tomorrow, know that.”

Sansa’s hopes soared. “I thank you, my lord-“

“And if you don’t,” he interrupted her, and stepped towards her, kneeling again on one knee. Sansa flinched away but the Stranger caught her chin tightly between two ungloved fingers. Sansa expected his touch to be like ice—cold and frigid in its death’s touch, but it was strangely hot. Too hot, in fact, her skin seemed to burn under his very touch.

“If you don’t find this love of yours, when I take you tomorrow, I will make you mine. My lady wife—would you like that, little bird?”

 _What would it be like, to be the Stranger’s consort?_ Her thoughts spun madly. Not to rest in the world where the dead are, now and always without fear, but forever made to cross from one world to another, always to be taunted with the life she had left behind. Worse, to serve at the Stranger’s side as the bearer of pain and tears and heartache. Could she ever bear it? To watch good men executed without mercy, like her dear father, or to stay still as beloved brothers like Robb be skewered with pointed arrows or sharp blades. To watch as innocent babes were ripped apart from their weeping mothers, never to live a life of both pain and happiness. To be the bringer of plague. Sansa would not die, perhaps, but her heart would. It was one thing to die, and another to be the Stranger’s wife.

“No,” she quivered, feeling sick. “I’ve said it before. I cannot—will not marry you.”

A cold wind gusted in the trees. Her heart felt sick and afraid, and was emptier than her stomach. Plague. Plague, the word haunted her mind, even when compared to the horror of marrying the Stranger. The branches thrashed overhead and his great black horse bit at the air.

“I have decided,” the Stranger said icily.

“No, my lord,” Sansa said again, louder and more determined. “I will not marry you. I will live and breathe and dance and sing to my children. I will marry for love.”

His eyes snapped to hers, and there was a burning anger boiling underneath the grey depths. He moved even closer to her, her chin still pinched in his grip, and his nightmarish face was so close to her own that for a moment Sansa thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight, and her body felt so weak. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened.

“Still can’t bear to look, can you?” His voice was harsh, and impossibly angry. “No matter. You cannot refuse me, little bird. Look at me. Look at me!”

His pinch was cruel, and he forced her head up. She looked, as he wished, and trembled—not at the scars on his face but at the severity of his eyes, at the sheer wrath of him. His horse pawed the ground.

“If it so comes to that I will obey you, my lord, but I will not love you,” Sansa whispered. “And think of eternity with a wife who does not love you.” She herself could not.

The Stranger lifted her as if she weighed nothing, large hands circling almost entirely around her waist as he set her on his horse. He lifted himself behind her, and she could feel the anger roiling off of him in thick waves behind her, but he said nothing. She said nothing more to him, either, but her heart raged: _No! I will not have you! Though you make me look into your scarred visage, I will not have you_.

Soon enough, Sansa saw the underbrush that signaled the end of the Kingswood, and caught sight of her little house where her mother was weeping through the window. The Stranger set her down, not ungently. “Tomorrow night, little bird,” he reminded her, as she stood on the mossy ground.

“I _will_ find my true love,” Sansa told him, determinedly. “And you will not have my soul. Nor those that you would take in the plague, my lord.”

He looked down at her from atop his courser, otherworldly and lethal in his regal stance. The shadows seemed to hide his face, but the silver shine of his eyes reflected back clearly to her, glowing like a dog’s from the dim light of the cottage.

“My name is Sandor Clegane,” he said, suddenly. “Not a lord, or a ser. The Stranger is just a title put upon me by pious fools and god-fearing cowards. But _that_ is my name, remember it, girl.”

Sansa gave no reply, did not have any time to, as the Stranger— _Sandor Clegane_ , her mind replaced—turned his horse and rode away into the shadows.

 


	2. Suitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa returns home from her ordeal, and begins to consider who her one true love may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I mentioned, this is very much an AU. Robert Baratheon is not a king, but a lord, and the Starks are just a normal peasant family (although proud of their heritage.) The Lannisters and Tyrells are also just villagers in this.  
> Winterfell is run by Robert Baratheon and is a poor, small town in the Crownlands.

The Stranger, Sandor Clegane, had left her at the edge of the forest. The darkness of the forest loomed behind, but in front of her Sansa could see her cottage, surrounded by its little garden. The wood was worm-eaten, and the hut was ratty from sheltering a family of five for years, but the light it emitted was warm, and smoke rose from the chimney in fleeting grey wisps. Beyond it, Sansa could see Winterfell.

_Home_ , she thought and the tears sprang up again.

Sansa longed for nothing more than to run to her little cottage, to see the relieved expressions of her mother and her siblings. But her legs wobbled dangerously, still weak from their days in the forest, and Sansa feared that if she were to take a step she would fall and never get up again. She looked longingly at Winterfell beyond the underbrush.

Winterfell was a poor village in a poor corner of the kingdom, but at that moment Sansa doubted there was a dearer sight in all creation. The village square at the bottom of the hill was a muddy morass, as it usually was, except in winter when the mud froze and in summer when it dried hard as a brick kiln. The cottages were in dire need of patching, and none more than her own. The thatch on every roof was thin and bore nests for mice and birds. The mill was an eyesore, and more than one goodwife had seen rats as they waited for their grain to be ground into flour. The boats that bobbed in the Blackwater were as tattered and drab colored as the bay it sailed in.

“Mother!” Sansa called, in hopes that someone would hear her. When no answer came she took a step—and fell, as she suspected she would. With much more than some amount of effort Sansa pushed herself up to a sitting position. “Mother!” She called again, desperately. “Arya! Bran! Rickon! It’s Sansa!”

Behind her was the sudden sound of crashing through the trees. It sounded like the pounding of a horse’s hooves, and for an instant she feared that Sandor Clegane had changed his mind and returned for her.

But it was not the Stranger’s large black courser that emerged from the tree grove, but a fine chestnut destrier. Its rider was the Ser Harrold Hardyng, heir apparent of the Lord Arynn, who was master of the lands of the Vale that which neighbored Winterfell. Sansa knew of him, knew that he was also currently serving under Robert Baratheon as a ward of their little town.

He dismounted from his steed, took her face in his hands, and then proffered her his waterskin. Sansa drank greedily.

“By the Seven,” he said as she drank. “We’ve been searching for you for three days. We thought you were dead.”

Sansa carefully wiped at her mouth and chin, embarrassed to think of her forgotten manners in her thirst. “Thank you, ser,” she whispered. “Could you help me to my cottage, my lord? I’m afraid I cannot walk.”

He nodded in understanding and, gently, he lifted and carried her. Once they were close enough to her cottage, Ser Harrold set her back onto her legs and held her around her shoulders.

“That was kind of you, ser,” Sansa said and her cheeks flushed in mortification. To think that the first time the handsome young knight saw her would be after she had been lost in the forest, clothes soiled and caught with leaves, and her pale face terribly gaunt. The last words she had spoken with Sandor Clegane came to her, then. “Ser, I must speak with you about an urgent matter.” Ser Harrold was highborn, and served directly under Lord Baratheon, surely he could aid her in her quest?

“First you must rest, my lady, and restore the color to those comely cheeks,” he said to her kindly.

It was no small compliment, and Sansa felt herself swoon from surprise at his words, but her legs were still very weak and they folded underneath her once again. Ser Harrold caught her and carried her into the cottage.

Inside, the little home was bursting with people, all weeping and speaking in low tones.

Ser Harrold set her down but kept his solid arms around her to steady her.

The weeping and murmuring stopped.

“I’m home,” Sansa said, suddenly self-conscious. Her eyes drifted to the pigeon pie sitting atop the cupboard.

Everyone around her became very still, turning only their heads to take in her ragged form. All at once a woman screamed, a man cursed, and the room seemed to burst with murmurs and shouts. Her mother emerged from the crowd, cried Sansa’s name, and ran towards her with arms outstretched before Old Nan blocked her.

“Don’t touch her,” Old Nan said. “She is a ghost!”

“Don’t be silly,” a loud voice interrupted. “Sansa would never let herself look so grubby if she were a ghost.”

Sansa would know that insufferable voice anywhere and there Arya stood, just behind their mother. Her little sister wore the rough spun brown tunics and breeches she preferred over her proper dresses. Her skin and clothes alike were smudged with dirt and little dry leaves embedded themselves into the rough thread. At her side was her cherished Needle, the thin steel blade being never far from her person. How beautiful she seemed to her now, and yet Sansa’s gaze fell upon the pigeon pie again.

Arya snorted, unladylike as always. “Figures, that you would be happier seeing a pie instead of me.” Arya’s words were not resentful however, and she helped her to the bench at the table. Her mother pushed past Old Nan and placed the pie before her. Sansa managed to stop herself from ravaging the pie and patiently cut the pie properly, before eating it with as much refinery and restraint as a three-day starved person could.

“No ghost would have such good manners,” her mother said happily. She kissed the top of Sansa’s head and sat across the table from her, smiling with relief and concern.

“Where did you find her?” Jeyne Poole, the village gossip asked.

“Where we’d search a dozen times—near the edge of the forest, behind her own house,” Ser Harrold answered.

“Leave it to Harry the Heir to find the girl,” said one of the village men.

“That’s our Harry,” agreed another, and even more joined in and added their own praises.

Ser Harrold grinned back at the praises, puffing himself up under his shiny knight’s armor, before excusing himself. “I will come again to make sure you are well,” he said to Sansa.

“Thank you, ser,” She said, dabbing her mouth full of pie carefully with a handkerchief. “I am well enough, I think, but it would be most kind of you if I may speak to you later on the other matter as soon as possible.”

He inclined his head in assent and left.

How handsome he was, Sansa reflected, with his hair the color of harvest-time wheat and his eyes a deep blue like a darkening sky. Everyone in Winterfell loved him, for he was well-mannered and could best most anyone with a lance in a joust. He was tall, and muscled, and was everything that was a young lord in waiting in all but name. Lord Jon Arynn had no living heir, all his sons being born in miscarriage, and it was obvious to anyone that Harrold would be the next Lord of the Vale once his uncle died.

When Ser Harrold had gone, the guests whispered together and stared at her with long faces. They were disappointed, of course, as they had come for a funeral for a girl who was obviously not dead. Some of the men, who’d been good friends with her father when he was alive, had told stories of the forest and of all the people they’d known who had been killed by the vast wood’s treachery. But Sansa had returned alive, moreover unharmed, and when they looked up at her they would shake their head in wonderment, as if she had defied all the wisdom of a great age.

Jeyne was obviously disappointed when she appeared whole and alive, for as glad the village gossip could be for her wellbeing there was nothing Jeyne loved more than a good story. But when others began to sidelong Sansa and whisper of wights, she cheered up.

Relatives and close family friends were there, too, and more came as the news spread of her return—she saw the Mormonts, the Reeds, and her Uncles Edmure and Blackfish were also among the attendees. Sansa wondered where Bran and Rickon were. Most of all, she wondered where her true love was, whoever he might be, and if he was among her mourners.

Willas Tyrell, a handsome bachelor who had recently began giving Sansa attentions and asked for her dances at goings, smiled at her. Being honest with herself, Sansa was incredibly flattered by his interest towards her; he was tall and handsome, with high cheekbones and chestnut-brown hair that fell in curls around his comely face. Perhaps his only setback was the limp he carried on his left leg, but Sansa did not think any less of cripples; more so after Bran’s accident.

Sansa had other reservations though, and her deepest one had to do with the longstanding Tyrell tradition.

The Tyrells were known for their prizewinning gardens where they grew their proudest and most beautiful roses, along with the sweetest fruits and the freshest crops. “Highgarden,” they deemed it, and the Tyrells reigned over it with the same pride and regality as if it were a high lord’s castle. Generations ago, a Tyrell had decided he would marry the woman who was chosen Best Cook of the village, regardless of his feelings for her, and vowed that his sons would do the same. His sons obeyed, and theirs too, and now it was a long tradition of which they prided upon.

Having the best gardens and the Best Cook in one household meant that the Tyrell tables were the envy of Robert Baratheon’s lands, but it was well known that Tyrell children were nursed on business, not love, and Sansa, Sansa would have love. Still, she encouraged her hopes that perhaps she could have both Willas’s garden and his heart for her very own, and that he might be her true love after all. As more whispers continued amongst her about White Walker kings and wights, Sansa thought that perhaps a reputation as Best Cook would overshadow her new reputation as the one who had been stolen by wights.

The Blacksmith’s apprentice was in also in the house. _His name is Gendry_ , her mind supplied, _he is Arya’s friend_. Sansa thought back to the words Sandor Clegane had spoken of him; how he was a bastard and had no family to miss him, and her heart went out to him. Gendry Waters was a tall, strapping man only two years older of age than Sansa. He had dark wisps of hair and clear blue eyes, and his trade ensured that his body was fit and well-muscled. He was handsome, yes, but Sansa never thought of him more than Arya’s friend, and it lightened her heart to think that the young blacksmith was not completely without fond company.

There was Tyrion, too. He was the coin master of their little town and he along with his brother, Jaime, were perhaps the richest bachelors in the village. But for all the gods had granted to Jaime and Cersei, with their breathtaking golden looks, they had left none for Tyrion. The youngest Lannister was born a dwarf and an unfortunate encounter with a sword had done no further favors for his appearance, having left an ugly large jagged scar across his nose. Tyrion was incredibly intelligent, though, and had an equally sharp wit to match it with a clever tongue for jokes and little japes. Sansa never thought much of the Lannisters, but Tyrion had always been kind to her.

And there was Podrick, Tyrion’s squire, a kind and loyal boy whose company Sansa found easy to be in, but who was also always shy and nervous. There was also Loras Tyrell, who was Willas’s younger brother and just as handsome, who gave Sansa a rose once. And…

“Sansa, how did you escape the Wights?” Said a shy voice. It was Davos Seaworth’s ward, Shireen Baratheon, whose father, Stannis Baratheon, had placed under the seaman’s care while he was away on business. The crowded room fell suddenly silent.

“There are no wights in the Kingswood, Shireen,” Sansa answered her, “there are only the heart trees, and little bugs that bite.”

Shireen tilted her grey-scale scarred face up at Sansa’s pale ones and smiled softly. “Even though you are bug-bitten, you are still beautiful, Sansa.”

Being beautiful wasn’t always a good thing, Sansa couldn’t help but think, remembering the burning intensity of the Stranger’s eyes on her night-chilled frame. The memory of it made her shudder.

“But how did you get lost, Sansa?” Shireen asked, the first one to do so.

“I followed the direwolf into the Kingswood.”

One of the older men nodded knowingly and spoke to her. “It is known that direwolves are beasts of the far North. Tell us, Sansa, did you see the Night King?”

Sansa shook her head. “There was no Night King, nor any wights neither.”

“And yet the direwolf lured you.”

“He did not lure me; it was my own curiosity that made me follow him.”

The man shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he did not believe her, and it was clear from the way all eyes turned away that the rest did not believe her either, preferring the more intriguing tales about wights and their direwolves that Sansa sometimes listened to herself around the common fire. “Well,” he said, “there’s something devilish and sly about the beast, and it is not just for the sake of our winter cattle do I say that he must be hunted down.”

The words brought Sansa no happiness. The direwolf loomed in her memory—tall and proud and fearless. The beast had been a magnificent sight to behold, and Sansa thought that his beauty was something she’d be willing to sacrifice a cattle or lamb for, though lack of livestock meant a hungry winter for people. The men’s talk became louder, and soon a group was dispatched to the castle to discuss with Lord Baratheon about the direwolf matter.

Suddenly, Sansa could taste the three day’s staleness in the pigeon pie. The crust was gritty between her teeth, and the meat was greasy and gristly. She winced to swallow and put down her spoon.

Just then Rickon burst into the room, followed by the massive form of Hodor. Behind the half-giant’s back was the figure of her brother, Bran. “Sansa!” Rickon cried before throwing his arms around her. Hodor set Bran on the bench next to her and he, too, wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug.

“We were just told you had been found at the edge of the Kingswood,” Bran said, “thank the Seven that Ser Harrold hadn’t given up.” Sansa hugged one and then the other, tears flowing without restraint as she inhaled their familiar scents and took comfort in the feeling of warmth and safety their embraces provided.

“Eat more pie, Sansa. Seven hells, you’re like a twig!” Arya said from across the table, pushing the forgotten tin towards her.

“How pale you are, sister,” said Rickon, sitting beside her.

While she and her siblings talked, the villagers continued to whisper, and one by one they departed. Her mother pressed one last kiss to her hair before gathering the dishes and leftovers back to their tiny kitchen, and Bran left with Hodor to keep her company. When they had all gone, Rickon said, “Everyone’s going to talk about you for days, Sansa.”

“I don’t care what they say,” Sansa replied matter-of-factly, “I only care to wed my true love.”

Arya and Rickon looked at each other for a moment

“But you don’t have a true love,” Rickon said with a puzzled expression.

“Of course I do,” Sansa said. “I just don’t know who he is yet.”

“Finding one should be easy enough,” Arya scoffed. “You love every handsome face that smiles at you.”

“Arya,” Sansa gasped, offended. “I do not!”

Arya rolled her eyes, unfooled. “When you were two and ten Waymar Royce asked a dance from you, and you spent the better part of that year saying how you would marry him one day and have his babies. When Loras Tyrell gave you a rose you wouldn’t stop gushing over him for a month and called him your ‘knight of flowers.’ You still have it, too. You kept it preserved and pressed in your favorite book.”

Sansa had the decency to look ashamed. “I like them,” she admitted, “but it does not mean that I love them.”

“How will you find your true love then?” Rickon asked, although the words ‘true love’ made his face twist with childish aversion.

“I’m not sure,” Sansa hesitated. “But I will find him, then I’ll fall madly in love with him and have him love me back. By tomorrow nightfall. And you have to help me.” Belatedly she realized that asking Arya, who preferred sparring with boys over admiring them, to help her with a task about love was not so great of an idea. But she only had a single day to accomplish her task and if nothing else Arya always proved reliable, despite their differences.

Arya and Rickon looked at each other again, before Arya shrugged her shoulders. “Sure, I’ll help you, Sansa.”

“You _were_ stolen by wights, weren’t you?” Rickon said. “Osha told me about them—and the Night King will steal you away if you don’t find your true love.”

Sansa bit at her lip before deciding to tell the truth. “It was the Stranger whom I’ve made a deal with,” she said. How real it all suddenly felt, having said it to her siblings.

“The Stranger?” Arya asked, eyebrows shot up in skepticism. “Has three days in the wood made you soft in the head, sister?”

“I did meet the Stranger,” Sansa said defensively. “The very ground he touched died in his steps and his face was half-burnt and—” she hesitated. _And he told me his name was Sandor Clegane_. She did not say so, though, for it felt very private for a reason she could not say.

Arya searched her eyes, and when she found no lie or madness her sister nodded as if she understood everything. “Of course,” she said, “how else did you come back from the woods when you don’t even know how to light a proper fire?” She turned her gaze toward the forest. “I’ve never seen any wights, but you and I both know that death is more real to us than anything. What deal did you make, Sansa?”

“I sung him a song, in exchange for another day to live,” Sansa whispered. “About Florian and Jonquil. I told him that I would have such a love like theirs. He told me that if I could find a love like that before I returned, he would let me go.”

Sansa could not bear the hopeless look in Rickon’s eyes, nor the grim one in Arya’s.

Arya stood and turned her grey eyes to stare out over the village. “I don’t know why you’d ever want to marry any of them,” she said. “None of them are any good at all, and are useless. But…I suppose Gendry’s alright.”

“Gendry? But I thought _you_ liked him,” Sansa exclaimed.

Arya looked back at her with a shrewd eye and wrinkled her nose. “I do _not_ like Gendry,” she said, quick to deny. “He’s stupid. He always calls me ‘m’lady’ even when he knows I’m _not_ ,” she huffed. “No. You’d be a better fit for him.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, Arya, I could never love Gendry. Besides, everyone knows how he turned down Margaery to ask you to the maiden’s day dance instead. He only ever looks at you.”

“Gendry doesn’t look at me,” Arya said. “He’s too busy beating swords and helmets with his hammer all day. He only asked me so I’d wear a dress for once, anyways.”

“What about Tyrion?” Rickon piped up.

“The Imp? For Sansa?” Arya asked incredulously. “That is the worst suggestion I’ve ever fu-” Sansa made a small reproachful sound in her throat and Arya stopped, looking meaningfully at her, and said dryly, “Ah, yes, the Imp—a most eligible bachelor.”

“He’s funny,” Rickon said.

“He’s a drunk,” Arya replied.

“Maybe when he’s married he’ll stop,” Rickon shrugged his shoulders. “I like him anyways; he always makes fun of mean, old Cersei.”

Arya answered, “But he’s a dwarf, stupid, and what about his nose?”

“Sansa can just not look down at it.”

“But that’s impossible!”

“I have always thought well of Willas Tyrell,” Sansa said slowly.

“Willas?” Arya scrunched up her nose in distaste, “he’s stupid.”

“You say that about everyone,” Rickon said, and then made a thoughtful noise. “Willas is nice, I guess. And kinda rich. Doesn’t he have to marry a Best Cook though, Sansa?”

Arya leaned across the table on her elbows. “If plants could cook, I bet he would marry his roses and his cabbages,” she cackled.

Sansa shot her a chiding look. “That’s unkind. He is a frugal man, I think.”

“Even worse,” Arya sniffed, thumping the table and straightening up.

Sansa frowned at Arya and then smoothed her frown into forgiveness. After all, she generously forgave Arya many times a day.

“Lollys wants him too,” Arya added. “I don’t think he likes her very much, though.”

Lollys Stokeworth was likely the best cook in the village. She ate eggs every day and sported her girth as proof of it. She had already won Best Cook two years in a row, but Willas Tyrell had not yet proposed. Still, Lollys could make a loaf that would cause a hungry man to weep with desire, and a stew that would make even a fed man beg. She was known to be simple in the head, though, and was plain as a fencepost, but her mother once told Sansa that when a man ate Lolly’s cooking he could think that she was beautiful.

Arya was not beautiful, either, but she was perfect in her wildness as she was perfect in everything. Her teeth were perfectly whole and white, her hair hung perfectly around her face, and she had a perfectly trim figure. The gods had probably feared to make her any other way. No, Arya was never admired for any kind of beauty, but she was honest, loyal, and resourceful—and people appreciated that. It was fact in the way her friends kept loyally by her side, while Sansa’s own drifted away, and in the way the Blacksmith’s apprentice was so devoted to her little sister; whether Arya knew it or not. Demonstrate talent, Sansa’s mother said to her once, and you will still be loved by a husband when beauty has faded.

Sansa, though, was defined by her beauty. She could bake a cake perhaps, and sing a pretty song, but neither would win her a husband. Being beautiful was all she had, and what need of beauty was there for a poor peasant girl, living in her own wattle-and-daub with her own peasant husband and her little peasant baby? Still, Sansa thought, surely her true love would still love her just as much when she grew old and wrinkly? Wistfully she daydreamed; of a man that might sweep her off her feet and share with her a love as strong and unconditional as that of Florian and Jonquil.

Sansa sighed. “A love greater than death,” she murmured, and then, just then, she had not known what that meant.

“Well, one thing is for sure—we go a-manhunting,” Arya declared.

It felt good to have her siblings in her confidence, though Sansa confessed it was not her full confidence. She could not bear to tell them of what Sandor Clegane had said about the plague. Arya shot her a sympathetic look and Sansa knew her distress had been evident on her face, although not for the reasons the younger Stark assumed.

“Don’t worry sis, I’ll poke him with Needle if he tries to take you,” Arya assured her, in her own strange comforting way. Her little sister patted the slim handle of her beloved sword.

“I’ll bite him,” Rickon added, gnashing his teeth. Rickon, with his lanky limbs and untamed fiery hair and who was more Wildling than Westerosi. Sansa had no doubt that her little brother truly would attempt to bite the Stranger himself if the god were to try and take her away. The thought made her giggle and she shook her head fondly at him.

“The Stranger isn’t someone you bite, Rickon,” Sansa said, and added, “nor should you be biting anyone else.”

“No,” he said stubbornly. “I hate him.”

“Hush now,” she said softly. Why did it pain her heart so, to hear him say those words? Sansa pat down the youngest Stark’s wild curls and kissed his cheek. “He will not come for me tonight. Let us go to bed for now.”

“If he comes for you, you better fight him Sansa,” Arya said, pale grey eyes narrowed. “I’ll hate you for forever if you don’t.”


	3. The Red Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sansa solicits the Red Witch of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for how long this took. Fortunately, the new GoT season has renewed my interests, despite the unfortunate lack of SanSan reunion, and I'll be churning these chapters out in a more timely manner (hopefully). I won't abandon it, though, so enjoy the update!

Sansa slept the night away and awoke the next morning with a gasp. Her pale skin shone with cold sweat and her sheets tangled around her legs like a hasty shroud. In the underlands of her sleep, she had dreamt that she was still in the Kingswood with the Stranger. Sansa looked out her window and saw the sun peek in its dawn, the sky a grey bird beaked with crimson.

Her days lost in the Kingswood had not faded from her memory. Sansa remembered the hardness of trees and the bitter taste of leaves and the black earth that gave her no water. _Plague_ , she thought. Plague.

From her window she could see the forest looming dark and deep, seemingly without end. She could also see Winterfell, close and safe.

 _No_ , Sansa reminded herself, _not safe_. Winterfell was in terrible danger, but what could she do to save it?

It began to rain. Droplets of water tapped against the glass of her window, and the rain seemed to make her poor and shabby village look even poorer and shabbier. It made the grey houses greyer, and the barns and stables saggy, as if being wet was more than they could bear. Winterfell’s square turned into a bog of mud and mire, and the yards into muck. The Blackwaters seemed even blacker, and even Robert Baratheon’s castle was reduced to nothing but a great, bare mound of stone.

And yet, Sansa thought, had there ever been so sweet and glorious a place?

She thought about the Stranger’s words. _“Robert Baratheon has allowed his lands to become a ruinous shithole,”_   Sandor Clegane had said. His language had been terribly crude, and even now Sansa blushed at the very thought of the exact choice of words, but she hoped it held a clue she could use to stave off the plague. To save herself from the Stranger’s clutches, Sansa already had a plan. She would visit the Lady Melisandre, the Red Witch of Winterfell, and ask from her a charm that would help her find her true love. Once she found him, Sansa would do whatever she could—while keeping her maiden’s decency—to make him marry her the very same day.

The Red Witch of Winterfell, however, was a frightening person. Sansa was not alone in her fears; all in Winterfell knew the Red Woman participated in pagan witchcraft, serving the Red God preferred by those in Essos, instead of the Old Gods or the Seven that was common of Westeros. There had even been rumors that the Red Witch took part in numerous sacrifices to the Red God, burning people alive at the stake.

Still, many of her worst critics in their time of need had gone to her for medicines and potions, and for a price Lady Melisandre had helped them. Now Sansa’s fears had been adjusted, too, and she would go to her.

Once that task was done, she would go to Ser Harrold Hardyng and seek his help against the plague, though by what exact means Sansa did not know.

The rain stopped and the sun burned away the moisture in the mud and mire. A white, foggy hazy settled knee deep over the village. Two children ran laughing in it, and the horses dipped their heads in it to graze.

Sansa laid back on her pillow and turned her head to look about her small room. A stone hearth was embedded into the wall at the far side, near it was the trestle table, its benches painted with that of direwolves. The thatch ceiling of her home hung above, hard as oak. In the corner was her chest, which stored her porcelain doll, gifted from her father, and linens to make a maiden’s cloak for her someday wedding. Everything was the same, yet everything was different. Just a sennight ago the little cottage she had lived in all her life seemed tiresomely small and drafty. Today, it seemed to be the dearest cottage in all of Westeros. Little half-wilted flowers sat in a tiny vase by her bedside: purple lilies, yellow daisies, and red poppies. A sennight ago she would have barely noticed them; today they were the sweetest sights in the Seven Kingdoms.

How strange, Sansa thought to herself, that only yesterday she had been about to die, and here she was today for the first time truly alive.

Sansa thought back to her life and remembered wistfully how, as a child, she would daydream as she imagined her true love. Would he be someone from the Crownlands? Or perhaps someone who had come a great distance to live in Winterfell? As a young girl, Arya would tell her scornfully that no one of any worth would come to their ragged little village. Sansa’s mood had been dampened by her sister’s words, but still she dreamed of a handsome knight who would come to take her away.

Through her wooden door Sansa could hear the rustling of pots and pans in the kitchen, signaling her mother’s wakefulness, but she stayed still, in her bed, pondering her faceless true love.

When Ned Stark had died, Robert Baratheon, out of his friendship with her late father, gave her mother a small pension for the remainder of her days. Sansa and her siblings would be left alone, without protection, after she died. _“I hope to see you wed so I may die in peace,”_ her mother told her once, knowing that then Sansa would not have to hire herself out a spinster for her share of flour and pork.

They were not starving on Robert Baratheon’s pension, but neither was there any danger of being fat. Her father had died without leaving a dowry for her, but her mother expressed great hopes that Sansa’s beauty might dazzle a man enough to take her as she was.

Sansa had also entertained such fancies, but had no desire to marry a man who wanted her only for her beauty. She wanted the kind of love that were in the stories; all-encompassing, selfless, and unconditional love. Still, Sansa had followed her mother’s lessons of courtesy with a religious dedication and fussed over her hair and plain gowns every day in hopes of finding the attentions of her someday husband-to-be. And now Sansa was more determined than ever, and decided that she would wear her prettiest dress today.

There was a tell-tale clank of wood against metal, and a rustle of approaching steps before her mother opened the worm-rotted door of Sansa’s room to rouse her. When her mother bent over her to wake her, Sansa clasped her round the neck, drew her closer, and kissed her mother hard and full upon the cheek.

Her mother smiled at her. “Up, then, Sansa,” she said tenderly.

“Yes, Mother.” Sansa leapt from her bed.

Her mother milked as Sansa made biscuits, though she was slow with fatigue, and so there was hot bread and butter with their porridge, and warm milk and stewed plums also. The smell of breakfast roused her siblings from their own slumber and soon enough Arya and Rickon arrived one after the other to the small oak wood desk that served as their dining table.

When they had finished, Arya and Rickon ran out to play without goodbyes. Her mother reached out and stroked her hair.

“Sansa, you must have no more adventures. It is unseemly for a girl of marriageable age. Eat—come, you must have more! Surely you have a high appetite after starving for three days.”

But Sansa’s appetite was satisfied, and she laid down her spoon. Soon, her mind drifted again to thoughts of the Stranger and their bargain.

“Mother,” Sansa said shyly, “what is love?”

Catelyn Stark looked steadily at her, as if trying to determine whether she was being impertinent. Sansa’s question, however, was sincere, for though she knew what marriage was and how some loves looked and how babies came, still she did not know how love was supposed to feel.

She said, “Do you not love the babies you tend to while their mothers are afield?”

“Yes,” Sansa said, “but…”

“It’s all the same, Sansa, all of a one. When the gods blessed you and your siblings into my life I loved you all just as I loved your father.”

Her mother leaned closer to her. Despite the hardships and loss in her life, Catelyn Stark’s Tully eyes remained as blue as the ones Sansa herself inherited.

“I loved Ned with all my heart, and even now my soul longs to be with him again. And as you grow, too, I hope to see you find such love as I have. To be happy all your days, as I was with your father; a soul-and-heart love.”

 _A soul-and-heart love_ , Sansa thought. Yes, that was what she would have, and she was reminded of her urgency to see Lady Melisandre for a charm.

Sansa asked, “What chores should I do today, Mother?”

“Sansa, everyone who came to mourn with me did enough chores to last a week. Arya and Rickon helped clean and wash, Willas Tyrell cared for the garden, and Tyrion and his brother came to patch the holes on our roof. Podrick did the yard, and Margaery and Jeyne did all the mending and sewing. Take the day off for yourself,” her mother said, “but stay away from the forest. I won’t lose you again.”

That command Sansa wished with all her heart she could obey.

-

Sansa had two errands—to speak with Ser Harrold or Lord Baratheon, and to visit the Lady Melisandre. While the latter was easier to accomplish, it was also the one she dreaded more.

Lady Melisandre lived near the road to Winterfell, a short way into the green gloom of the Kingswood. She lived alone, but none were foolish enough to rob her. People feared her enough, but the Red Witch also enjoyed the protection of Lord Stannis, who had converted to the Red God’s beliefs and demanded that the witch be left in relative peace.

Though the air was still as Sansa entered the wood, leaves of the trees whispered and seemed to bend, as if they were a little more alive than other trees for living near Lady Melisandre.

As Sansa came before her house, she stood nervously before the door, her feet shifting, and nervously wrung her hands. _I shouldn’t be here_ , she thought. She should speak to Ser Harrold first. But even as she turned to go, Lady Melisandre opened the door.

“Come in, Sansa,” she said, red-painted lips curling secretively. The Red Witch’s manner was unsurprised, as if she had been expecting her.

“You know my name?” Sansa asked. They had never spoken to each other before.

“Everyone is speaking of you today, and not in quiet voices. But before, I knew you for your beauty.” The witch spoke in a soft, sultry voice. “And I know it was no wight you saw in the Kingswood, Sansa,” she said, and Sansa felt glad that she did not believe it.

The Red Witch had been well named. She was beautiful; with long hair the color of burnished copper and pale, unblemished skin. She was dressed in long robes of crimson fabric, and around her slender neck laid a red-gold choker; in its middle inlaid a large red ruby.

The furniture in her home was of unknown origin. Decorated chairs made of foreign logs and a table almost as big and heavy as Robert Baratheon’s were set before a gigantic fireplace. Lady Melisandre’s pots, the size of cauldrons, hung from the ceiling, along with nets of bulbs and bunches of drying herbs. A great wooden closet stood against the wall opposite of the fireplace, its carved doors discreetly closed. It was all very tidy and clean, and there was no evidence that Lady Melisandre was a witch.

Although she was.

The Red Witch sat Sansa in one of the heavily decorated chairs. The woman curtseyed a little, and then laid out two cups in front of her. Sansa noted that she wore her hair unbound. “Have some tea,” the Red Lady said. “You must be quite tired from your long walk. Here, my dear…it’s so nice to know there is someone in the parish more vilified than I.”

Her voice was a chant, soothing and gentle, with a heavy eastern accent underlining it. Nervously, Sansa picked up the cup. _Porcelain_ , she noted. Expensive.

“I’ve come to ask for a charm,” she said, bringing the cup closer to her lips to take a small sip. “A charm to help me find my true love.”

Lady Melisandre only smiled, as if she had already known the purpose of Sansa’s visit. Suddenly fearful, Sansa’s eyes flickered down to her drink before settling it back down. “I don’t believe in Love potions,” she said stoutly, refusing to touch the tea again.

“No, no you don’t,” the Red Woman said quietly, reassuringly. She placed warm scones before Sansa, each the size of a pie plate. She hovered around her, at once diffident and attentive, like a bird brooding over her chick, lightly touching her shoulder, her back, her arm. Finally, she sat at the table beside her and looked at Sansa as if she were hungry and her eyeballs were just what she had been craving.

“I don’t believe in sorcery, and I don’t believe in love sorcery most of all,” Sansa said, though the defiance in her voice had lost its edge. She did not want to make a love, she wanted to _find_ it—there was a difference.

“No, not at all,” the Red Witch said agreeably. She brushed all the words from the air with long, pale fingers. “Not at all, my dear, my heart.” Her words disappeared into breathy nothingness, as if from moment to moment she forgot what she was saying.

Sansa thought she would stand and leave, now, now, but she did not, for she could hear the wind in the forest around her.

“Is it true?” She whispered, at last. “Is it true you can make a charm that would show me my true love?”

“Oh yes, it is true,” Lady Melisandre said with sad resignation, though Sansa could not fathom why. “True Love, the highest of magics.”

“I will have it,” Sansa said, sounding braver than she felt.

“Of course,” the Red Witch said, nodding to herself.

Sansa waited some time, looking at her, but the Red Lady did not look back at her. Instead the witch studied the fire as if waiting for a dragon to rise out of the flames. Whether she was searching for some sign or vision from her Red God, Sansa could not say.

“Well?” Sansa said at last.

Lady Melisandre glanced at her, cleared her throat, and went back to studying the fire.

Sansa felt frustration creeping at her. “Lady Melisandre, I said I would have it.”

At last the witch turned glittering eyes back at her, and Sansa could have sworn they had become as hard as amber. “Yes, you said you would have it,” she said low, almost in a whisper. “But there is the small matter of the price.”

Ah, the price. The price was why people feared the Red Witch, for it was not always money she asked for. “I am poor,” Sansa said. “You know I am poor.”

“Yes, poor,” Lady Melisandre said sympathetically, but there was no sympathy in her face. She studied the fire again. At last she said, in a voice that was hypnotic in its quiet power, “But there is a price you can pay.”

Sansa’s skin prickled, all the way from her scalp to the soles of her feet. “Then name it,” she whispered.

A pale, slender hand reached across the table to grip her own hand. It was strong as a man’s yet, before Sansa’s eyes, skin that bordered on ethereal in its perfection became wrinkly and dry. Long blue veins bulged outwards against the leather, and brown splotches grew outwards like a spill of ink upon paper. She looked up in horror, and in the place of the beautiful witch was an old crone; a woman who lived long, long past the years that any mortal should. The ruby was gone from her neck—now laying in the palm of another withered hand.

“All the things I could ask of you, Sansa,” the crone murmured, and despite the agelessness of her voice Sansa recognized the sultriness of it to be the Red Woman’s. “And yet, I choose the one that all mortals desire: to live. Are you surprised, Sansa? That I believe in the power of the Stranger, a god of the Seven, while being an apostle of R’hllor? It’s not so hard. After all, Death is coming for everyone and everything, and all who live are familiar with him.

She sighed, and in it Sansa heard the tiredness in it and the old creak of withered bones.

“You’re dying,” Sansa said with realization.

“So clever you are,” said Lady Melisandre with cloying sweetness. “Yes, I’m dying.”

“But you were a young woman just a moment ago—surely you’ve already a means to save yourself? Why don’t you cure yourself?”

“Why don’t I indeed?” Lady Melisandre repeated her words. “Exactly. Just so. I’ve lived this long, have I not? Long enough to look like _this_. Serving the Lord has granted me some of his wisdom and power, but I’ve reached its depths and my art, unlike yours, has no power over death.” Here she leaned very close to Sansa and peered into her face.

Sansa leaned away from her. “How—how did you know…?”

“Do I not know all sorts of things?” The witch replied, mysteriously.

“Then you know I hold no power over the Stranger. I’ve only made a bargain.”

Lady Melisandre shrugged slowly, but Sansa knew she did not believe her.

Shaking, bone thin arms reached behind an even thinner neck to replace the ruby choker around it. Crimson red bled into bleached white tresses, and blotchy wrinkle skin regained their youthful beauty. Soon enough, Lady Melisandre in her previous supernatural beauty reappeared before Sansa’s eyes.

Sansa was so angry and afraid she could not speak. She thought to leave, but knew she could not leave empty-handed. Sansa stared at the fire, and Lady Melisandre stared at her.

In the silence Sansa thought that she saw the Stranger’s face in the fire. Face half-burnt, his eyes hot as embers, losing all patience with her as she asked him for the Red Witch’s life.

“I have no power over the Stranger,” Sansa said weakly. “I see him, but he has no regard for my wishes.”

“I will not live for much longer,” Lady Melisandre said, glancing towards the jewel upon her neck.

“Nor might I,” Sansa said. “But—but I will see what I can do.”

There was a moment pause before there was a slow nod of the Red Witch’s head.

“I will have my charm,” Sansa said.

She nodded again. “For you,” Lady Melisandre said, “my most powerful magic.”

The Red Witch stood up and stared into her kitchen, bracing herself on the back of the chair. She looked as if she were going to commit some foul deed against her will, so white was she, yet resolute.

“First the distillate,” she said. From her cupboard the Red Witch removed a small vial with only her thumb and forefinger. Her lip curled in distaste. Carefully she put three drops in a small bowl and stepped away from it. She said, “This will be a pure love, a pure and…” She looked at Sansa and stopped speaking.

“It needn’t be fancy,” Sansa said, glad now that she had begun. “One true love,” she continued, “one who will give me a little house of my own to clean, and a little baby too.”

“Yes, yes,” Lady Melisandre said, “nothing fancy. It’s bad enough without making it fancy. Second, the infusion.”

She took a small bottle from beneath a bag of cabbages. She poured the contents into the bowl with the other liquid and swirled it around and around, then gazed into the bowl as if she could see an unpleasant future at the bottom.

“Ahh,” the Red Witch said. “This will be a deep love, deep as…” She glanced at Sansa and fell silent.

“Deep?” Sansa asked, almost smiling now. “Of course, deep—can you make a charm strong enough to find a deep love?”

“I am an artist,” the Red Woman said firmly.

She dug into an opened trunk and rummaged. She took out a half-filled jar.

“And now, the decoction,” she said. Her head shook as if she regretted finding it. Rising, she carefully poured a little in. A thread of smoke floated out of the bowl. “Oh,” the witch murmured. “It will be a passionate love you will have.”

“Are you almost done?” Sansa could not help but ask. Her courage was beginning to fail her.

The Red Lady only smiled at her. “This will be the best love charm I have ever made,” she said.

From her apron pocket she drew a small, glistening thing. She plopped it unceremoniously into the bowl.

“What is that?” Sansa asked in horror though she suspected she knew the answer.

“The charm,” Lady Melisandre said simply, “so when you see your true love, you will know it’s him.”

“It—it is an _eye_ ,” Sansa said, horrified.

“Yes,” she said. “Put it in your apron pocket. Touch it and you will feel it looking. When it grows completely still, you will have found your true love. And let me assure you, Sansa, that there is one for you. I felt it powerfully.”

Despite her disgust and fear, she felt as if she could love the Red Witch at that moment, whether if it was by gratitude or pity or the fumes of the potion on the witch’s fingers she did not know. “Thank you, Lady Melisandre.”

The Red Woman folded a small cloth around the eyeball and tied it with a lace ribbon. When Sansa reached for the charm, she pulled it back. “Tonight,” she said, “you must ask him tonight.”

Sansa nodded. “I will ask him tonight.”

Lady Melisandre handed it to her at last, and Sansa took it from her and left as quickly as she could, somewhat relieved but dreading the price.

But she had accomplished her purpose. Sansa had secured a way to find her true love, and she was now determined to speak with Harrold Hardyng.


End file.
